


Gifts

by owlaholic68



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Gen, Growing Up, Minor Injuries, Muteness, POV Multiple, Parent-Child Relationship, Swearing, The Mad Mage isn't crazy or evil, a story about the children having an odd childhood, but he is trying to be a good dad, he just doesn't have all his marbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlaholic68/pseuds/owlaholic68
Summary: Being a single father is difficult. But even more so when you’re a Mad Mage trying to balance your projects and your wonderful new gifts, your precious children.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Gifts

Lucien’s first memory is…

He doesn’t remember.

But he can recall his father gently scolding him for running recklessly down the tower staircase. It’s a very soft reprimand. Papa is treating his skinned knee, slathering on some foul-smelling salve and wrapping it in a light bandage. Brushing away Lucien’s tears with a handkerchief that he was gnawing absentmindedly on, frowning and folding it to a clean spot.

“Promise me you’ll be more careful,” Papa quietly says. “You gave your poor father a terrible fright, Lucien. A terrible fright, a terrible fright.”

“Yes, Papa.” Lucien wipes his eyes on his too-short sleeve. An overnight growth spurt had left all his clothing too small. “I’m sorry, I won’t run down the stairs anymore.”

Papa hugs him. “Thank you, that’s a good boy.”

Something in the kitchen starts bubbling. An acid stench and wisps of smoke. Papa uses words that Lucien isn’t supposed to repeat and rushes inside, starting to shout incantations to clean the mess up and get his potion back to rights.

Lucien stays out of the way. He goes outside and plays with Harry, pretending that they’re adventurers exploring the dangerous cliffs.

* * *

Harry’s first memory is much earlier.

Vague like all memories from early childhood. Mostly just the impression of warmth and being rocked. The smell of incense, the turning of pages and scribbling of a pen. Papa murmuring something.

There’s something off, though, like there’s always something unusual about most of Harry’s early memories.

He’s making noise. Crying. Babbling and starting to wail, upset about something. Next to him in the crib, Lucien starts up at the noise, almost bonking Harry’s head with his horns and hitting his brother in the leg with his tail.

“Oh dear, oh darlings…” Papa comes to the side of the crib. Chewing on his quill, hanging from his mouth as he clumsily picks Harry up with one arm and Lucien with the other. Gently rocking them and quietly cursing to himself at his incompetence. He glances at a scrap of parchment above the crib.

“Are you…hungry?” He guesses. “No, you ate recently. And I changed you too just an hour ago, and it’s certainly warm enough in here. Warm enough, warm enough? More blankets?” He frowns and starts pacing when Harry only cries more. “Oh boys, oh boys don’t cry, I’m here. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here with you – is that what you wanted?”

Harry stops crying and Lucien quiets too. He reaches up and takes the quill from Papa’s mouth with his grabby little baby hands, smearing ink on himself and making his Papa laugh.

“Now I’ll have to give you a bath,” he halfheartedly complains. “My goodness, you two are sure a lot of work. But don’t you ever think that you’re too much work. Too much work? Not you two. Now come on, perhaps I can wipe off the ink before it dries and we can go without a bath tonight. No bath tonight, okay? No bath, Harry darling, how does that sound?”

Harry babbles a laugh when Papa tries to wipe off the ink, squealing at the tickle of magic when Papa prestidigitates it clean after much frustration.

* * *

The store in town is causing Papa problems.

“We’re out of milk,” the harried store owner protests. “I’m sorry, Sir, but we’re fresh out.”

“Then. Get. Some. More.” Jacques clenches his hands into fists. He knows that they’re smoking with barely-restrained fire. The only thing that stops him from burning this stupid shop and its stupid fucking owner is the fact that his boys are in a buggy next to him. They would get upset at the fire, and they’re already upset.

Upset and hungry. They are hungry and that is _unacceptable._

“We – we can’t get any more. I – I’m terribly sorry, the farm we get supplies from just reported that the majority of their cows got ill and passed. They’ve barely got enough milk for themselves, let alone to sell.”

Jacques sighs and rubs his forehead. “Great. What in the fucking hell do I feed them, then?”

The owner seems unsympathetic. He shrugs. “You’re a Mage. Figure it out.”

“You have a wife and kids, don’t you? Yes you do, yes, yes…” Jacques ignores the owner’s flinch and paling face. “What does she do when she has difficulties? There must be some substitute in case she falls ill or dries up.”

“I can go ask her?”

“Do it.”

The owner fetches his wife, a sour woman that glares at Jacques. “Well?”

“I need something to feed my boys and _apparently_ there’s no milk.”

“Boo-hoo.” She crosses her arms. “Guess they’ll starve. Or maybe you can see if your Devil-spawn drink blood.”

Fire is always burning in Jacques’ veins, but now it comes to a forefront. He snaps his fingers and catches the woman’s stringy hair on fire. “Stop _fucking_ with me. Tell me or give me something, _now!”_

Lucien starts crying at the woman’s screams. Jacques tunes it out, careful not to let the fire burn her skin. More smoke and light than actual flame, that’s the trick.

“Fine, fine!” The shopkeeper goes behind the counter. “We’ve got a substitute.”

He extinguishes the fire with a snap. “Great. Give it.”

“Fine!” The shopkeeper sets a jar of powder on the table. “Mix it with one part water and heat it slightly. And don’t you _ever_ set foot in our store again, lunatic.”

Jacques slams a handful of gold on the table and picks up the jar. “Gladly.”

* * *

“Oh, Lucien…”

“I’m – I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry!” Lucien tries to sweep the shards of the unknown potion vial under the table. Gets cut hands for his trouble.

Papa has an awful temper at the people in town, but he obviously tamps it down and only sighs. He reaches down and picks Lucien up, setting him on the table. “Are you injured?”

Lucien nods and holds out his hands. The potion did splash him but didn’t seem to have any effect. Papa bandages his wounds and gives him a hug.

“When I heard a crashing sound, it frightened me so terribly,” he admits. “You shouldn’t be playing in here, Lucien. You’re lucky it wasn’t a vial of acid or poison.” He shivers. “Lucky, lucky. So lucky.”

“I – I’m sorry I ruined your work,” Lucien cries. Clutches his father’s neck. “I won’t play in here again, I was just curious about what you were doing and I wanted to try reading.”

Papa safely levitates the glass shards and inspects the remnants of the label. “Potion of Climbing, and only a prototype at that. I was trying to add a Featherfall element but it wasn’t working. No worries, darling, you didn’t really ruin any of my work. Just be careful, okay? You’ll give me gray hairs if you carry on like this.”

“Yes, Papa.” Lucien knows that people call his father Mad. Mad like crazy, mad like angry. But he’s never angry with them, and mad like crazy? His father seems rather sensible with sensible adult rules: be careful, eat your vegetables, don’t run around inside.

Papa’s no Mad Mage. He’s just…Papa.

* * *

Harry is hungry.

It’s past dinnertime and Papa is still working. The boys haven’t seen him all day. It’s nearly dark.

Harry tugs on his brother’s sleeve and points upstairs. He’ll go fetch Papa. Neither of them are allowed to use the stove for Papa’s fear of them burning themselves, despite their protests that they’re big kids and they can be careful.

Papa’s study takes up one entire level of the tower, not to mention his mundane craft workshop on the main floor, his basement menagerie, and his upper greenhouse. Harry trots up the stairs and knocks on the door.

No response. He starts to worry.

He’s not supposed to bother Papa while he’s working unless it’s an emergency. Is this emergency? Maybe. Harry cracks open the heavy door and peeks inside.

Papa is on his side on the ground. Lit candles eat away at his hair. His hands are clutched tightly around a pair of metal rods. His glasses are cracked and filthy. Harry creeps closer. No response. Papa’s eyes are open but glassy. Breathing slowly.

Harry panics. He rushes to Papa’s desk and climbs on top of it to pull on a rope. There’s one in every room for emergencies. It rings a bell that echoes down the tower, creating a cacophony that will alert the entire house that something is wrong.

Papa’s hair is burning. Harry grabs the safety bucket of water in the corner and dumps it over his father’s head. The fire extinguishes but his Papa doesn’t react.

“What’s wrong?” Lucien runs into the room, out of breath.

Harry indicates that Papa’s not responding. He paces. Neither of them are strong enough to move him.

“I’ll get the clone!” Lucien says, and runs downstairs. He coaxes Papa’s idiot clone up the stairs and into the room, instructing him to gently pick their father up and follow them. They bring him downstairs and have the clone dump him in a kitchen table chair.

“What do we do? What – how do we wake him, what do we do about dinner-” Lucien scrambles around the precarious kitchen, wetting a washcloth and laying it across their father’s forehead.

Harry straightens his back. They need to be big kids to take care of this. He walks over the stove and lights it, careful with his fingers. He taps a large pot and points to himself. Points at Papa, then Lucien.

 _I’ll do dinner, you take care of Papa,_ he’s communicating. Lucien gets his drift as he always does. He nods.

“But we’re not supposed to use the stove,” he argues.

Harry nods and shrugs. Papa’s not aware enough to worry.

He fetches a bucket of water. Thankfully, Papa had rigged up a magic system to bring water into the kitchen so they didn’t have to go out to the well in foul weather. He fills a pot until he struggles to carry it, then lugs it onto the stovetop.

Soup is his idea. You can’t mess up soup, right? They eat soup a lot due to Papa’s lacking cooking skills.

Soup needs… stock. Harry digs in the spice cabinet for Papa’s dried soup broth mix and adds a few spoonfuls of the powder.

Soup needs…ingredients. Something for the soup. Harry runs up to the greenhouse and picks spinach and carrots. He washes both, then throws in the spinach. The carrots are carefully chopped and added too.

Potatoes would be good. But while carrots are easy to chop due to their length (lots of room for little fingers to hold), potatoes are more difficult. There’s no question of peeling them. Harry’s never even touched one of the kitchen knives before, let alone delicately peeled something with them. He sticks his tongue out and slowly cuts up several potatoes. It takes him five times longer than it should because he wants to be careful.

The potatoes are added. Harry grabs handfuls of a few random herbs and puts them in too. He contemplates the meat stores and decides against it – he’s not sure he could safely cook meat.

The soup is bubbling and boiling. Harry turns the stove down to a lower heat and stirs it. It’s starting to smell like soup, so he must be doing something okay…

Papa starts to stir at the smell about fifteen minutes later. He grumbles and raises his head, rubbing his forehead and squinting.

“Boys?” He slurs.

“Here, Papa.” Lucien goes to his side and gives him a glass of water. “You – you wouldn’t wake up and Harry found you and your hair was on fire and we got you down here and we missed dinner and I – I’m sorry, we’re sorry we know we’re not supposed to use the stove but Harry’s making soup-”

Papa raises his hand to stop Lucien’s rambling. He drinks the water and rubs his eyes. “Soup sounds nice,” he murmurs. “You haven’t injured yourself, have you?”

Harry shakes his head.

“You’re still not supposed to use the stove, but I suppose this can count as a bit of an emergency…” He sighs and puts his head back down on the table. “I should really get around to teaching you boys how to cook. Not that _I_ even know how to cook. I could do knife and fire safety at the very least. Remind me, alright? I need to take a break from my work, I’m getting absolutely nowhere and it’s only draining me. Draining, draining, draining…”

“Yes, Papa. We’ll remind you.” Lucien helps Harry ladle out the hot soup and bring it to the table. They find a few spoons that are reasonably clean.

Harry crosses his fingers behind his back when Papa takes a spoonful of the soup. He’s not sure the potatoes are fully cooked and he’s not sure if the spinach was actually ready or if the herbs were herbs you could put in soup-

“It’s good,” Papa mumbles. “This is probably better than my soup, if I’m to be honest with you.” He takes another spoonful and perks up. Some color returns to his cheeks. “This is quite good, Harry. Thank you. Thank you both for putting up with me and taking care of me.” He sadly sighs. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be minding you two, not the other way around. What a father I am…”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that even if he could talk. He reaches across the table and pats Papa’s hand. Tries to communicate love through a smile.

* * *

Lucien whines and pushes away the spoonful of whatever disgusting medicine Papa is trying to give him.

“No, you _need_ to take this,” Papa insists. He’s obviously trying not to get frustrated.

“I don’t _wanna!”_ Lucien pouts. He coughs. “It’s _nasty!”_

“I know it doesn’t taste good but it will help your cough. It will help you feel better, don’t you want to feel better?” Papa tries the spoon again. “Lucien, please. Do it for me?”

Lucien sighs. Papa is devastatingly worried by his illness, fretting to the point of nearly making himself sick too. He reluctantly opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue. Chokes on the medicine but swallows it, wiping away a few tears at the awful taste.

“Thank you, Lucien.” Papa wipes his sweaty forehead. “Would you like me to read to you?”

He wants to protest that he’s not a little kid anymore, but maybe it would be nice if Papa read to him again. “Sure, Papa. Could you – could you maybe show me too?”

“Okay.” Papa takes down a book. He flips through the stories with one hand while creating wonderful illusions with the other, magical pictures that depict the story in the book. Lucien sits back and lets the medicine do its work, enjoying the fanciful images brought about by his father’s powerful magic.

* * *

The house is empty.

Not completely empty, of course, but still empty. No children. Just him and his clone. And the chickens he’s breeding, and the bees, and the bats, and the butterflies, and the miniature dragon turtle, and whatever other animals he’s forgotten he has.

Still too quiet.

Papa returns to an old habit of wearing bells. In his ears, on his wrists, around his ankles.

He jumps between projects, unable to focus for more than a minute on any particular thing. Thinking of his boys, his children somewhere out in the world all alone. He ruins three potions, so distracted as he is with worry.

He downs four cups of the calming tea he usually saves for the rare times that James can visit. It calms him enough to scry on his kids and finish two spells. Then the effect ends and he has to run laps up and down the tower stairs until his jitters go away.

James. He wishes James could visit, but his sweetheart is overwhelmed with a publishing cycle and cannot meet with him for more than an hour or so at a time. Can’t risk sneaking up to the tower in this unusually clear weather.

Papa churns out enchanted handkerchiefs and sends a large shipment off to the Hub, then starts working on some new prototypes. Embroidery helps his nerves.

Cleaning helps too. Manual cleaning, no cheating with magic. He weeds in the greenhouse, he lets his turtle free-roam the house while he scrubs out its huge tank, he takes all his long-neglected kitchen pots down to the ocean and makes his arms sore with washing them.

He receives a note from James saying that he’ll be free in a few nights. They’re calling for storms so he can visit.

Jacques decides to give his hair a much-needed cut. Instead of grabbing handfuls and randomly hacking away at it with a knife, he sits down and takes his time with proper scissors.

A night with his lover calms him for another week. James senses his heightened anxiety and paranoia. He promises to try to visit more often.

His children are still gone. But one day, Jacques scries on them and sees them on a riverboat with their new eccentric friends. They pass a landmark that he recognizes as being close to here.

They’re on their way. His children are coming home. He’d been so wrapped up in delicate work, burning all his energy. None left for messages to check their progress.

Jacques leaps back and forth between paranoia and excitement. They’re probably a day away. He cleans the house, this time cheating with magic. He orders groceries from town and washes the boys’ linens, making up fresh beds and opening their bedroom windows to let in some fresh sea air.

He hesitates and sits on Harry’s bed. Stares out the window at the angering ocean. Fidgets with his bell bracelet, finds himself chewing on one of Harry’s paintbrushes that he’d left behind on his bedside table. He hadn’t gone up to the boys’ rooms since they’d left. Since he’d let them go with warm wishes. It hurt too much to be up here. Their bedroom suite of the tower was always lively and bright. Without them it was…

It was somewhere he didn’t want to be. Jacques gets up and closes the windows – it’ll rain tonight.

Hopefully they’ll get home before then.


End file.
